FIVE
SPRINKLES ON TOP
The boat was a shock. It’s nothing huge or anything: just a small navy blue yacht, fast and comfy, designed to cover the distance to the coast but not much more. No, what stunned me was the realization that there was a boat. Several, in fact, but also a road leading to the snowy pier, lined by barracks and a couple of stone houses in which I assume the castle personnel lives. There was an entire world at hand’s reach, even within the confines of the island. A world I never suspected was there because, curled up in the fog of my meds, smoldered by Stiles’s constant monitoring, I never made it beyond the fricking park. Sweet Jesus, I’ve been vegetating in a two-hundred-yard-wide perimeter since April . . .
As we trail across the gulf of Finland toward Hamina’s harbor, I can’t take my eyes from the windows, even for a second. Every detail of the barren immensity surrounding us feels new and awesome: the dark waters, the pristine floe blanketing the sea in the distance. Ingolvinlinna is part of a cluster of islands off the southern coast, most of them mere skerries. I never cared much for the local topography until now, but seeing them feels like a revelation, and I marvel at each snow-covered rock emerging from the water.
For a while, I’m barely aware of Stiles, sitting by my side on a long couch. It takes me a few minutes to notice that he’s not looking at the scenery but, rather, at me.
“What?” I ask, fiddling with the white beanie and matching gloves I shoved in my parka pocket before leaving.
“Nothing. You look enthralled.”
“And you look blasé. Don’t you like it here?”
A brief wince twists his mouth before he readjusts his black leather gloves under the sleeves of a brown coat. “I’d have picked someplace warmer.”
I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard Stiles express any disagreement with my father. Because we both know that’s what he means by that. The island is my father’s retreat—a cold, silent place most would find desolate but where he sees beauty and finds peace, to quote him. Which is why I’m here: for an old-fashioned patriarch, it goes without saying that what’s good for him is good for his offspring.
“Where?” I prod, turning away from the window.
“Where what?”
“You said you’d pick someplace warmer. Where?”
His gaze grows unfocused, lost in the foggy horizon. “Savannah. Nice weather, even in December.”
“Sounds good. Is that where you live?”
Stiles blinks—I’ve taken him off guard. On his face, the surprise quickly morphs into an impenetrable smile. “I live where my job takes me. Which is here, at the moment.”
Gotcha. “Stop dodging the question. I’m talking about the place where you keep your cats.”
His eyebrows shoot up. Here’s another low blow he didn’t expect. The Roomba cats . . . I have no idea if anyone knows about them besides me. They’re his secret hobby, and it basically goes like this: Stiles has four cats, who live in the mysterious sunny place where he finds solace when he’s not doing my father’s bidding 24/7—they may or may not be the only thing he loves in this world. He trained them to ride on the many Roombas ambling around his house, and he buys silly costumes for them—mostly on Etsy, where the boldest names of feline fashion gather. Anyway, he dresses them up, lets them roll, and films the whole thing.
I love his stuff. You don’t know the true meaning of art until you’ve seen a sphynx in a glittery unicorn costume sitting on a Roomba that repeatedly bumps against a fridge. The dreaded firewall did allow me to check some of his videos on YouTube, and his account is insanely popular. I have no idea how much he makes from online advertising, but he hit twelve million views for that vid of his tabby dressed up as a monkey and licking a banana, so I bet he could retire today if he wanted to.
“So,” I insist. “Where does the magic happen?”
“I could tell you,” he eventually says. “But where’s the fun without a little bit of mystery?”
I’m tempted to give it another try, but I can tell he traced a line he doesn’t want me to cross. Stiles works for my father, and what he does in his free time, or where he does it, is technically none of my business.
“I guess you’re right,” I concede as the first houses come into view, and the yacht slows down toward a small marina.
Stiles glances through the window and clasps his hands. “Get ready. It’s adventure time.”
Adventure it is, when our pilot helps me down a frosty pier. On a wooden shelter furnished with not one but two benches, a sign proudly reads Hamina Yacht Club. There’s a parking lot lined with naked birch trees and a few traditional Finnish log houses, with their characteristic falu red paint and white trims and windows. I spot a café and, nearby, what appears to be a minigolf course, half-buried under the snow. Yes. This. This is something I’ll need to investigate. Thoroughly.
With a nod to the pilot, Stiles leads me to the parking lot, where a black Jaguar sedan awaits. It’s a short drive to downtown Hamina, past more wooden buildings, but also neoclassical ones, like the town hall and Vehkalahti Church—a stunning ensemble of arches and columns supporting a portico, all painted in bright orange with white trims: a Roman architect’s dream . . . in the land of the Finns. Stiles takes his time driving us around and playing tour guide—I love that. I feel like my mind, my body are awakening at last, and I want to absorb everything, the lights, the sounds, the colors . . .
As we near the marketplace, the picturesque wooden houses are replaced by concrete buildings, restaurants, and shops. I rub my hands in anticipation when I notice a supermarket sign. Most of the place is occupied by a Christmas market—this too shall be visited extensively, I decide, eyeing the food trucks lined up around the place.
As soon as we’re parked in front of a supermarket with an impossibly long name I instantly dub the S-Mart, I spring out of the car like a jack-in-the-box. “Let’s grab the Christmas stuff first; after that, we can check the market and, um, I need to buy a phone too.”
“A phone?”
“Yes. I thought about it yesterday. I haven’t had one since I came to Ingolvinlinna, and I figure I lost mine back in April. But I need one.” I swallow to catch my breath—my brain is working faster than my mouth, which is a welcome novelty. “I can’t believe I spent so long without a phone, right?”
He gives a skeptical nod. “I don’t know if that’s something we can find—”
“We can probably find one there,” I counter, pointing at a store across the street, whose sign features a yellow phone next to a big Ericsson logo.
A perplexed frown creases Stile’s brow, before he nods. “All right, but let’s go through your shopping list first.”
I give him a thumbs-up and follow him inside. There, I make a beeline to the Christmas aisle and start filling our basket with a steady hand, piling golden balls, light garlands, little reindeer plushy ornaments . . .
Stiles watches me compare two stars with his arms crossed. After several minutes of silence, he cocks his head at me. “You’ve livened up lately.”
He’s right. I want this new energy I feel flowing through me. I love feeling so sharp, so pumped. My mind is stirring awake at long last, and I want out of the cocoon my father has crafted around me . . . I think of the colorful pills I threw up before leaving the castle and shush my conscience as I tell Stiles, “I told you I was feeling better . . . I kept blaming everything on my meds, but I just needed to give myself a kick. Rising up, back on the street, you know the drill.”
Stiles chuckles, taking the glittery white star I picked. “I see . . . Got everything you need, tiger?”
“Yup.” I take determined strides toward the register. “Now, all I need is a phone, and next time that crap firewall acts up, I’ll just switch to my data.”
His eyes seem distant as he places our loot on the conveyor belt. “Christmas market first, maybe?”
I grin. “You’re tempting me . . .”
“Then let’s go,” he retorts with a wink.
After a brief stop to the car to load our purchases in the trunk, we’re ready to take on the Christmas market, with its small wooden houses selling stuff no one needs yet everyone will buy. The heady scent of freshly baked pastries and fried food tickles my nostrils as I stop in front of a stall selling a multitude of flashy Peruvian beanies.
I’m so used to Stiles always hovering behind me that it takes me a whole minute to notice he’s stopped a few feet away, in front of a different stall. His eyes dart my way—the professional never sleeps. I trot back to him to see what could have possibly distracted the steadfast Joshua Stiles . . . and stifle a laugh. Those tiny Christmas costumes were meant for dogs, as evidenced by the many pictures hanging on the shop’s walls, but it won’t stop him: I can already see the cogs spinning fast in Stiles’s head as he examines a reindeer costume and its pair of felt antlers.
“Feeling inspired?” I ask.
He strokes his chin. “Could be.”
While Stiles rummages through the owner’s stock, a series of shrill sounds reaches us, coming from the direction of the ice-cream truck. We look over our shoulders to check the source of the commotion. Flash tantrum: a little girl just collapsed in the snow and is now emitting otherworldly screeches. Stiles returns to his shopping, but I keep watching, fascinated. Apparently they’re out of strawberry cones, and the child is now attempting to tear off her clothes in a textbook case of possession.
The crowd too witnesses in consternation as the mom attempts to reason with the vile little turd writhing in the slush at her feet. Suddenly, a scoop of ice cream flies from the truck, fired at the kid with deadly precision. The shrieking stops. The air becomes still as the girl stares up at the old and burly clown leaning over the counter. Her round face is smeared with pinkish goo; she looks winded. Before she can open her mouth again, the clown finishes her with a handful of sprinkles that land in her hair and barks, “Seuraava.” Next.
In the US, that would probably go all the way to trial, but instead the mom simply picks up her child with a solemn nod in the clown’s direction. Tough shores. I look back to see that Stiles is paying for the reindeer costume. A cold flake lands on my nose. I look up; snow is starting to fall again, like a thousand stars tumbling down from above to melt at our feet. In the food truck, the clown is gone, leaving a young guy to serve the customers instead. I feel suddenly a little cold, despite the wool scarf around my neck. A shiver raises goose bumps on my arms. Something is wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it. From the corner of my eye, I see Stiles taking a paper bag from the dog-costume seller. Around me, people walk, run, laugh under the snow.
That’s when I notice that someone in the crowd isn’t moving, standing still. I stare back at the man in a long black coat I am now certain is staring at me. My chest tightens. It’s not real—I know it’s not . . . Maybe I shouldn’t have thrown up my meds because now I’m hallucinating hard. My pulse picks up, and I can’t look away from the tall silhouette, the short chestnut hair. I’m certain his eyes are a dark blue, the color of the ocean, which is logically impossible to ascertain from this distance.
“Island?”
I whirl around to find myself nose to chest with Stiles. I stagger back, blink up at him, and immediately turn again to check the surroundings of the ice-cream truck. There’s no one there. God, I have serious issues . . .
“Island, are you still with me?” Stiles’s inquiry sounds muted, like I’m pressing my hands over my ears not to hear him. But my arms are actually dangling alongside my body, so it can’t be that.
When I finally face him, he’s studying me with narrowed, worried eyes.
I shake my head, struggling to calm my racing heart. “No, I mean . . . yeah.”
He places a hand on my shoulder. “We’d better head back.”